


anywhere away from here

by stellulam



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Time Travel Fix-It, War Themes, background carolina is bad at relationships, she gets it from her father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22751137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellulam/pseuds/stellulam
Summary: Allison won’t get home if she isn’t clinging to some shred of optimism, patting her breast pocket three different times while they do their equipment check. Each time confirms that the folded up picture is still there. Her baby girl’s still with her, just safe. (or, Carolina realizes that bad things can't happen to Agent Washington if she goes back far enough to stop her dick of a dad from starting Project Freelancer in the first place.)
Relationships: Allison Prime & Agent Carolina
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	anywhere away from here

Even on the first meeting, there’s something familiar there. Allison chalks it up to green eyes and a cheek bone structure that kind of reminds her of her mother-in-law. And _god_ , she’s even sort of missing her mother-in-law and that’s just pathetic. She just barely tolerates the woman, for Carolina’s sake.

The soldier who identifies herself as McCallister stays familiar, though. Allison makes friends, shares base gossip so she’ll be all caught up in case any drama goes down. Drama outside of the war, at least. 

The way McCallister holds herself, no one needs to tell her how to fight. 

When a recon mission pops up, metaphorical straws get pulled, Church and McCallister wind up with five soldiers between them when they’re lined up alphabetically on the transport out. The whole team is a good one, though. Good people to die with or for, she thinks, even if she tends to leave the nihilistic comments to her colleagues. 

She won’t get home if she isn’t clinging to some shred of optimism, patting her breast pocket three different times while they do their equipment check. Each time confirms that the folded up picture is still there. Her baby girl’s still with her, just safe. 

So very safe. 

The first two days of the mission are as close to boring as they could get. On the morning of the third, things start to heat up. 

By dusk, they’re all fucked. 

Splitting up for tactical reasons inevitably ends in scrambling to regroup when it backfires, when it just gives the Covenant fewer humans to focus on at a time. As if they need the advantage. 

Allison’s cornered with one of her favourite demolition experts - Johansson, from Arizona, with the burn scarring down his cheek and neck that he has a different story for every time someone asks - when things get worse. Because they certainly weren’t going to get _better_.

One grenade blinds them, the second one tosses up sand around them. The third is shrapnel and Allison doesn’t let herself think about how injured she might be, because Johansson looks like he’s missing a chunk of his chest and she has to pretend that a bit of basic first aid might save him. Might save both of them. 

There are Elites firing at her as she hooks her arms under Johansson’s, drags him back between the sand swept buildings of a city that hasn’t been properly inhabited in a year.

She doesn’t start with checking for a pulse, just fumbles with his first aid kit to find something to pack wounds, to stop blood flow, biofoam in her hands in an instant.

No one can say she didn’t try. 

She doesn’t get any sort of reaction out of him before noise gives an enemy approach away and Allison grabs clips and a grenade from Johansson’s belt before she stands - and _ah_ , there it is, shrapnel on a path through her ribcage, something burned, maybe, on one leg. But adrenaline and anger and the picture in her pocket are enough of an anesthetic to get her up and preparing to defend herself. 

The grenade throw isn’t her best, but it isn’t a waste, either, and even if she’s not comfortable moving too much at the moment, she has her battle rifle up and firing. 

One enemy goes down, thank fuck. The next one is one of the tall bastards with the swords and Allison _swears_ she can do this, she can survive this corner and survive the day and _go the fuck home_.

But she needs to reload her clip and Allison swears loudly as she realizes it, stumbling a few steps back, as if that’s going to make a huge difference. 

She prepares herself to duck and dodge and hope for the best, anticipating the alien about to lunge at her. 

Instead, it goes crashing into the far wall with enough force that the whole structure starts to crumble. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking _kidding_ ,” Allison groans out, glancing up long enough to see what sort of danger zone she’s in before she’s dropping to her knees, automatically curling protectively over Johansson. He’s almost certainly dead. It still makes her feel better. 

She braces for the building meant to withstand sandstorms to come crashing down on her, one hand coming up to her breast pocket again. She wonders, briefly, who the fuck to pray to at a time like this. 

There’s a flurry of movement beside her and she waits for the stone on her back. 

It doesn’t happen.

She waits a little longer.

“ _Church!_ ” It’s from above her, through the helmet filter of the ODST-esque armour McCallister’s done her training in. Even then, the tone is high, emotional. “Are you alright?”

“Not dead yet.”

It’s sort of like alright. Allison forces herself to straighten up a little, at least look up, confused by the energy shield forming a dome over them. Then, by force of habit, she looks for the shield generator. There isn’t one, just McCallister standing at the centre where it should be, arms out straight on either side of her, hands flexed back, palms out, as if to physically keep danger at bay.

“Good start,” McCallister says, still _upset_. 

“You have a plan to get our asses outta here or what?”

“The plaza’s cleared and I didn’t hear about any backup being sent in. Straight out of this ally, across the yard, second door on the left. Can you get there?”

Allison nods, more out of bravado than any real sense of what her body is capable of at the moment. 

“But I can’t get Johansson all the way there.”

McCallister hesitates, looking down at the pair of them before she finally says, “I’ve got him. I’m giving you a fifteen count from go until I let this keep collapsing, so you need to get out and get the energy sword off of the Sangheili I just killed.”

“You going to get out of here in one piece?”

“That’s the plan.”

The _go_ order comes not long later, Allison scrambling over debris to get to the sword, rifle in her other hand. It’s not a nice walk, by any stretch of the imagination, but she makes it, mostly. She’s against the doorframe, braced to give covering fire, when McCallister lets the building go, shield disappearing. Dust and sand kicks up again, Allison wincing when she doesn’t turn her head in time to stop it from whipping at her cheeks.

And even then, she’s not entirely sure she’s going to see her squad mates again. There’s something self-sacrificial in McCallister, Allison’s sure of it. She’s just not sure what the trigger would be. Ego and empathy are going to fit together somehow and for the love of everything, Allison hopes it isn’t on her watch. 

The worry’s pointless, though, because there’s a toss of a weapon past her - a gravity hammer, she realizes - so it’s out of the way but still nearby as McCallister ducks inside, Johansson over her shoulder. 

“Check his vitals.” A curt order from McCallister once she has their squad mate on the ground and she’s heading back for the door. “I’m going to make sure we’re still alone.”

Allison doesn’t get real words out, just some sort of mumble of acceptance as she steps over to sink down the wall next to Johansson. 

He’s dead. She does a full check of his vitals anyway, because it’s the right thing to do, then starts to repurpose ammunition and equipment out of his kit. Makes sure nothing goes to waste. Leaves his dog tags for now, in case they get an evac and can take his body with them. He has an older sister with ONI. She should get to bury him.

She has him laid out in a way that’s at least a little respectful, hands at his sides, when McCallister comes back.

She leans the grav hammer against the wall, then pauses, looking between Allison and Johansson before there’s a soft, “ _shit_ ,” from her and McCallister has her helmet off, dropping it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, automatic condolence about Johansson. _There’s_ that empathy showing up in McCallister’s military-focused way, as if she’s guilty of something. As if she's supposed to be winning the whole war herself.

“We tried.”

Allison looks up at her for a long silent few seconds before she moves, just a little, and winds up wheezing, the shrapnel in her side reminding her it’s there. And that she’s lost a fuckton of blood. 

Before she even gets a curse out, McCallister’s on her knees, reaching out to touch Allison, one hand on her shoulder, the other tentatively hovering against her side before settling on her hip.

“Don’t move. Let me look at it.” There’s that rise in pitch again and Allison can’t help but acquiesce, her hands dropping, head tipping back to rest against the wall, eyes closing as she tries to figure out how deep a breath she can take. 

McCallister checks her vitals, her wounds, visibly tries to pretend her hands aren’t shaking as she works a bandage over the flash burned strip down one of Allison’s thighs. And then her attention is on that shrapnel again, touch gentle, but hesitant. She’s testing, trying to make a decision. 

“You’re really stressin' me out, you know,” Allison comments, trying to sound casual, practicing being maternal and reassuring instead of a firecracker with a short fuse. The picture in her pocket helps her remember how to be soft. 

“I’m just- I’m _thinking_.” McCallister’s voice breaks, but Allison’s pretty sure it’s not anger. “I need to make the right decision here so just give me a second, _please_. I can’t let you die.”

A thought flits through Allison’s head and she opens her eyes to prove herself wrong. Except the soldier in front of her looks distraught, bright green eyes brimming with tears and it seems like proof. In her thirties and Carolina still has the same wibbling, distraught expression when she’s trying to do the right thing in front of her parents that she had at six. 

“You won’t,” Allison says, reaching to curl one hand around Carolina’s arm, squeezing where her fingers can press against undersuit. “Deep breath and hold it, baby girl.”

The way to get over crying, to get injected vaccines, to brace for the pain of moving broken limbs. A way to get frustration down, when Leonard’s being particularly insufferable and now isn’t the time.

And Carolina responds automatically, a gasp and her lips pressed together, doing what her mother says. The tears seem to subside a little, at least enough that those pretty eyes aren’t so water-distorted. 

“Alright, exhale and help me secure this thing.” There’s a vague gesture to the shrapnel protruding from her side, hand dropping from Carolina’s to the first aid supplies beside her. 

The reversal of which one of them is being bossy, distraught daughter deferring to her mother, helps keep Carolina on task, so that once Allison is about as stable as she’s going to get, Carolina can work on getting a call in for an extraction. Not that that seems to be happening anytime soon.

(But she's _trying_ goddamnit and if this doesn't work, Carolina's just going to get the time gun and try again because _fuck_ that, she wants her mother to come home and-)

And there’s this thing that Leonard does when he can’t solve something, hands curling and stretching, weight shifting onto the front of the foot before a turn to start pacing. Carolina starts to do the same damn thing and Allison can’t help but smile, even as she extends a hand. 

“Sweetheart, sit down.”

Carolina freezes, then complies, awkwardly sitting cross legged next to Allison before she takes her gloves off, finally. 

“... I’m sorry I can’t do more to help you right now. I was trying to get to you as fast as I could, but-”

“Hey now, none of that,” Allison says firmly. “I’ll be alright. But _you_ , kiddo, have some explaining to do. No apologies, just tell me what the fuck your father did this time.”

“I… You died.” There’s a pause, before Carolina rushes to add, “When I was six, today was the day you died, here, on this mission. I just wanted to save you.”

“And you did.”

“So far.”

“ _Hush_. I’ll be alright. A few days in a hospital and then I’m going to do everything I can to go home,” Allison says, her smile soft. “It’s not fair if I don’t get to see you grow up.”

“... Dad needs you, too. He did so many things in the name of missing you. Horrible things, that may have had good intentions but _god_ , he ruined a lot of lives.”

“All that because I died?”

“Because you are the most important thing in existence to him and he’s too smart not to twist his grief into… He just missed you too much.”

“Of course.” Allison sighs, mostly exasperated but still having a hard time breathing. “And what about you, my little Cee-monkey?”

Carolina looks away at that, nose wrinkling as she takes in the wall beside her in silence for a long moment. Allison waits. 

“I missed you. I _miss_ you. But you just kind of… set me up for everyone else I was going to lose.”

“That already tells me you’ve lost so much more than I ever hoped you would. You’re always the most beautiful when you smile, didn’t I tell you that?”

“You did,” Carolina concedes. “But…”

“But nothing,” Allison supplies. “So tell me how this happened and we’ll figure out how to get you smiling from there.”

“How far back do you want me to explain from?”

“Let’s start with how you went from that growth spurt to my base.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that one of my teammates got trapped in a malfunctioning time machine and everything went sideways from there?”

“... I’m going to have to, aren’t I?”

“I mean, it makes me sound crazy, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Allison says evenly, not really judging. She's fighting aliens. Shit gets weirder every year. “But go on.”

“We wound up separated, but some of us, at least, had these... _things_ that we could program and create portals with. Some of my friends had different priorities,” Carolina says, glancing away. “But I knew where I needed to be.”

“And here you are.”

“Here I am,” she parrots, still looking at the wall instead of her mother. “Until I know that you’re living long enough to get back home. Everyone misses you.”

“What will you do after that?”

“... Assuming I don’t create some sort of cinema-worthy paradox by keeping Dad from starting Project Freelancer, I think I might just go home.”

Allison hums, just acknowledging the information, still for a moment before she reaches out to cup her daughter’s cheek, gently turning her head. 

“Look at me, Carolina.” It’s soft, but remarkable, when she so rarely uses her daughter's full name. It’s always nicknames, little terms of endearment. “I’m proud of you, no matter where you are or what you’re doing.”

(For what it’s worth, Carolina doesn’t _want_ to cry, doesn’t want that to be the thing that breaks her most thoroughly of this whole adventure. But here’s her mother, praising and loving her after such a short amount of time, when it would be impossible to figure out the last time she’d gotten that from her father.)

Still, Carolina looks like she loses the fight with tears, squeezing her eyes tightly shut as she turns her head, muffling a sob against Allison’s hand. 

“Let yourself cry, little one.” It’s quiet, Allison moving just enough to catch Carolina’s wrist, tugging until the redhead moves closer, back against the wall next to her mother. “Even crying, you still look every bit as beautiful as I knew you would be.”

Carolina shakes her head, starts to protest, but Allison cuts her off.

“None of that. I’ve heard enough to know you don’t hear compliments nearly as often as someone as perfect as you deserves.”

“I’m alright, really.”

“When was the last time your father remembered to hug you?”

“It was… I guess it’s been over a decade now.”

( _Sixteen years_. She's not going to rat him out like that, not to her mother and her mother's temper.)

“Do you still love hugs?”

“ _Mom…_ ” It’s a quiet, embarrassed noise. 

“Alright, dumb question. Does your team give you enough of them?”

“We’re not really the type."

Allison arches an eyebrow, not taking that for an answer, so Carolina starts talking - tells her about Caboose falling asleep on her shoulder at Blue Team movie nights and hugging her off her feet when he’s particularly excited to see her. Tells her about Donut getting a little too close when he's relaxed, the time Grif hugged her after they spent hours talking about family they missed. The overly emotional hug and just how much he wanted to spend time with his sister were never to be talked about again.

She pauses then, checking Allison’s state again, keeping care of her, making sure she stays awake.

Which means talking about Wash, about whatever strange, undefined thing they’ve danced around, about how she’s not sure where family love and familiarity turns into something more. 

(And _god_ , maybe if she'd had a parent to talk about this shit with to begin with, she wouldn't be so horrible at it now.)

Lately, though, it doesn't matter. She can't have anything with someone she can't trust to remember how much she cares from minute to minute. So the topic of Wash leads to Connie, then Florida, Maine, North Dakota, the people on the _Mother of Invention_ she’d stolen little cuddly moments with. Never very publicly, of course, because outright hugs could be kind of embarrassing, but no one thought twice about her A team being a tangle of limbs spread over the couches on movie nights. Mostly, at least.

“Then there was New York, he was… Well, if you had decent taste in men, I bet you would have thought he was perfect.”

“Hey now, your father might be an asshole, but he’s ours.”

“I’m just saying, you could have done a lot better.”

That gets a breathy little laugh from Allison, then- “I know. But I’m happy with the choice I made, especially if I can stay alive to keep him in line.”

“... Don’t put him through losing you and maybe some day I’ll see the appeal.”

“Not if he’s so different from that New York that caught your eye.” There’s teasing there, at least a little. “Tell me about him.”

“He was… _kind_. A little silly and sweet, too nice for the sort of soldier he was and what we did. York was loyal, so damn loyal, to a fault, and I didn’t deserve the way he watched out for me. No matter what, he was just beside me, flirting and fighting and trying to make me stop and relax.”

“Which you’re terrible at, naturally.”

“I’m told I get it from my mother,” Carolina says dryly, earning a huff of amusement from Allison.

“So did it work, him trying to make you relax?” 

“Sometimes. Not often. Not nearly often enough for what I wished I had done now that he’s long gone.”

“... You know you can fix that, sweetheart.”

“But _you’re_ my thing to fix. If this ruins something in the future I remember, or makes it so I never met York or anything like that, this was all I wanted.”

“And if it doesn’t ruin anything?”

Carolina wrinkles her nose, cheeks a little flushed as she looks away, awkwardly searching for words. Leonard avoids the same way. 

“Cee.” It’s still soft, but insistent. “Do you love him?”

“... I think I did, at least.”

“Then get him.”

“Maybe, once I know you’re safe.” (t

“Which will be a few days at most,” Allison says, reaching out to brush a wisp of red hair back from Carolina’s face. “And then, if you don’t go after him yourself, you’re just going to have to tell me his name so I can hunt his parents down and set up a play date.”

“ _Mom…_ ” Sheepish, again.

“I’m serious. Start talking.”

“I don’t…” Carolina trails off, red and averting her gaze. “He told me his first name the night I met him, but I…”

“You forgot it?”

“I forgot it.”

“I’m sure being compared to your father is the last thing you want to hear from me right now, but that has Leonard written all over it.”

“Dad’s to blame, anyway.” It’s rushed out, tone briefly bordering on petulant before Carolina reels herself back in. “He made sure we didn’t use names, not our real ones. We stuck to our state callsigns.”

“And you were…?”

“South Carolina. At first, at least. Then there was a lie about a new recruit dying and he dropped the South.”

“He can be a selfish ass sometimes, can’t he?”

“That’s pretty much a summary of our relationship, yes.” 

“ _Oh_ , sweet Cee-lion,” Allison sighs out, thumb rubbing over her daughter’s cheek again. “I’ll make sure he does better for you.”

“He doesn’t need to do better for me. You just need to stay alive.”

“Hey, already on it.” Still woozy, a little short of breath, ready to let someone else handle this, but as capable as Carolina is, Allison just wants to take care of her. She just wants to be a mother for a little while, until she can get home.

So when Carolina tries to protest again, Allison just cuts her off, prompting her for more stories, things that had been good, things a mother can be proud of. Which is everything, when she gets to be a mother to something so wonderful as this. 

Conversation keeps them occupied until an evac shows, _finally_ , and Carolina reluctantly hands her mother over to the medic on board, pacing at the back of the ship, with Johansson’s body and a sort of caged restlessness that she gets from _both_ parents. Carolina checks in once they’re back at the base, showing up to sit at Allison’s bedside once she isn’t needed anywhere else. She’s in civvies with her hair down loose, the way Allison likes it, and the visit is even better than the photograph of her tiny Carolina back home. 

Stable now, it takes a few days to arrange a transfer out, Allison released back to her room, technically off-duty, but terrible at being still. Until Carolina comes to sit again, at least, the evening before Allison is due to leave.

“I know I don’t have much longer with you,” Carolina says, chewing on the inside of her cheek after a lull in conversation. “But would you mind if I followed you home? Just to the spaceport, not even the connection back to the base.” It’s a little rushed, uncertain. “I just need to be sure.”

“Cee, _what_ in the universe makes you think I would turn that down?”

“You’re going home to the family you left, I don’t fit there.”

“You just said yourself you wouldn’t come to the airfield and we both know your father isn’t going to go out of his way to surprise me with a pickup as soon as I’m planetside. I would rather have you with me.”

Carolina presses her lips together, studying Allison for a moment before she visibly tries to make herself relax, with, “Really?”

“Come on, baby girl, you’re smarter than that.”

There’s still hesitation, Carolina a little stiff until Allison reaches out to tug her to sit on the bed together. Propped up against the wall, she coaxes Carolina into laying down, head in her mother’s lap, where Allison can toy with her hair until they both fall asleep.

Then it’s morning and the trip home, the pair stepping to the side once they’re off the transport, somewhere relatively quiet.

“It’s just you from here,” Carolina says, fingers toying with the straps of her bag as she looks at Allison.

“Before that, is there anything you need from me?”

“Just stay alive, go home and give me a hug.”

“But _this_ you, in front of me.”

“... Can I have a hug, too?”

Even with the aches Allison still has, she sweeps Carolina up in a hug as enthusiastically and easily as she would the little redhead she’d see later in the day. Carolina doesn’t _quite_ suppress a sob at that, so Allison just holds her as long as she needs to, murmuring reminders of how loved she is, how _proud_ Allison is, how much Carolina deserves good things. 

It’s enough, after a while, and Carolina eventually rights herself, hastily wiping her face, pulling herself together for appearance’s sake. 

“You don’t want to miss your connection,” she says, as if she’s not emotional about this non-goodbye. “Better to get home before dinner instead of in the middle of the night, especially if we’re expecting you.”

“Well, who am I to argue your wisdom on that?”

“You can’t.” Her lips quirk a little, even if her jaw is tight. “Thank you for letting me get to know you, Mom. I hope this gets to be a reality where I don’t have to wait so long, but after everything… I appreciate the weeks we served together.”

“That feeling is mutual, little one, you know that. I love you.”

“I know, but it’s still nice to hear..”

Expression soft, Carolina closes the distance again, lips brushing Allison’s cheek as she pulls her into another hug, more brief this time, with a murmured, " _I love you, too,_ " but still important. And the brevity is a big important bit, Allison reminds herself. Neither of them can get on with their lives if this hug doesn’t end.

So she pulls away, presses a kiss to Carolina’s temple, then simply says, “Go be happy,” before she turns, grabbing her bag and heading for her next shuttle. 

Heading home, to make things right, to kick her husband's ass if she needs to, even if he might not deserve it yet. 

And who is she kidding? He probably does.

**Author's Note:**

> you can pry Epsilon's "Cee" being Allison's nickname for her first from my cold, dead hands. ♥


End file.
